


Little Birds

by SummerFrost



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kent "Baby One More Time" Parson, M/M, Reckless Driving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/pseuds/SummerFrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent was never the one who was afraid of thunderstorms, and he isn't caught in one now. He's put himself in it, because he has somewhere he needs to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Birds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for week four of the OMGCP Trope Challenge!
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my real-life brot3 alpha_exodus and calypso-mary for the encouragement, and extra thanks to alpha_exodus for the beta! <3

Kent hydroplanes for the third time in ten minutes. He lets out a stream of curses and then laughs hysterically, drops another five below the speed limit. There isn’t a road anymore, just a stretch of smooth darkness that gets lumpy if he turns the wheel too far to the right. Every now and then lightning flashes bright and demanding across the sky and he catches glimpses of trees, buildings, like peeling back the blackout curtains in a hotel room just to let them fall again.

The radio is on but he has it turned low, lower than the pounding of the rain so that he only hears snippets of words between the rhythms of the storm. Sometimes the thunder mixes with the bass.

He hydroplanes a fourth time. The rain sparkles in the headlights of cars driving in the other direction. He passes drivers who’ve pulled over, their hazard lights screeching yellow warnings. He’d stop with them, maybe, on a different night. But right now he has somewhere to be.

 

~*~

 

Kent isn’t sure if it’s the thunderclap from overhead or the weird, broken sob from fifteen feet away that really jolts him awake. Jack is sitting hunched over, head between his knees, breathing so hard Kent can watch the curve of his back shift each time he manages to take in air. “Holy shit, Zimms, are you—are you okay?”

“Fuck, Parse, do—do I look okay?” His voice is small, interrupted by a flash and a crack that shakes the room.

Kent scrambles out of bed and over to Jack, sits gingerly next to him. “I—what can I—can I do anything?” He’s sixteen. He’s cried over a thunderstorm exactly once in his living memory, because his childhood cat had gone out earlier that night and didn’t come home before the rain hit. He was convinced she’d drown. She showed up the next morning, utterly dry and grumpy about missing breakfast. After that, he’d figured the weather was mostly harmless.

Jack doesn’t seem to agree. “You—I—I can’t—you should go back to bed.”

“Nah, Zimms.” Kent nudges him over and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Jack is drenched with sweat and his shirt sticks to Kent’s skin. “We’re a team. You don’t sleep, I don’t sleep. No man left behind and all that shit.”

They don’t say anything else. It takes two more lightning flashes for Jack to let Kent lean him back against the pillows. They lay on their backs; Kent stares at the ceiling and Jack stares across the room, towards the door, because his cheek is pressed to Kent’s chest.

Two hours later, the storm has mostly passed and Jack is asleep and drooling on Kent’s favorite shirt. Kent doesn’t know why he bends down to press his lips to Jack’s temple, but he does and it feels so right he has to remind himself to breathe.

 

~*~

 

There’s something euphoric about driving through a storm, Kent thinks. It feels like control, even when the wheels threaten to spin out at any second and he can barely tell where he is and he can’t hear himself think over the thunder. Maybe it’s that he’s become a part of it. He belongs to the chaos instead of sheltering from it, safe and small under a roof someone else built for him. Not that he built the car, but, you know.

There are stoplights and streetlamps again, after his short stint on the highway. They don’t help his view of the road, much, but he can tell that no one’s out on the sidewalks. It’d be weird if they were; it’s nearly eleven at night on a Tuesday and the lightning is tearing through the sky, jumping to God-knows-where on the ground, like it’s begging for a better target. It’s funny how you don’t usually hear about where the lightning goes. Sure, sometimes it hits a building and sets shit on fire, and you hear about it then. He wonders what happens to the rest. Maybe he’ll Google it, later.

The rain is slamming sideways now and the trees planted on the median are bending in the wind. Leaves slap against the windshield and gather against the wipers, crushed up together and smearing streaks across the glass.

The GPS says his destination is two minutes away and on the left. The thunder rumbles a little softer. He outran the storm, just enough that if he wanted he could let it catch back up and swallow him all over again. Kent presses back against the headrest and smirks. He moves his foot over to the brake.

 

~*~

 

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” There’s another storm tonight. Jack is curled up under the comforter, his head in Kent’s lap.

Kent cards his fingers through Jack’s hair, slowly, and tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling. “Nah. Everyone’s scared of shit. I’m not gonna chirp you for it.”

Jack takes in a shaky breath. “What are you afraid of?”

Abandonment. His step-dad’s fist. Never being loved by anyone in his entire life because he’ll never deserve it, never be good enough for anyone to want him. “Spiders.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Jack sighs, “I could kill a spider for you, but you can’t change the weather for me.”

Kent smirks and leans over to fish around in his duffel bag. “Can’t I?” He takes out his iPod, unravels the headphones, and hands Jack the earbuds. He hits play.

“What is this?”

Kent sinks down farther against the pillows and pulls Jack closer against him. “Nature sounds, songbirds.”

“What kind?”

“Shit, I dunno. Finches, maybe.”

Jack’s smile tickles against the edge of Kent’s thigh. “ _Petits oiseaux._ Little birds.”

“Yeah.” He massages his fingers against Jack’s scalp again, letting his other hand fall to his hip. He closes his eyes and murmurs, “Just listen, Zimms. This is where you are. It’s morning, early morning. The sun just came up and there’s a rainbow. Birds are singing and there’s no rain. It’s so early you can go back to sleep. There’s nowhere to be. Just be there, birds and a rainbow.” There’s a boom of thunder but Jack doesn’t flinch, just snuggles in closer and sighs. “There’s no clouds, no rain. Just birds and the morning and a rainbow and the sunrise.”

“And you?”

Kent sucks in a deep breath and holds it until his lungs feel like they could split open. “Yeah, and me.”

 

~*~

 

He parks the car across the street. He’s pretty sure that’s illegal, but he’s got a nagging suspicion no one’s gonna be around to ticket him tonight. He counts three flashes of lightning and two bangs of thunder before he climbs out of the car. He’s soaked through and on the other side of the street by the time the missing peal of thunder arrives.

Kent’s adrenaline bottoms out and he stops short of the entryway, standing rigid in the deluge, waiting for some shred of courage to come back. He holds his arms out and tilts his face up until the rain starts to suffocate him and he has to look down instead.

 _If I don’t get struck by lightning in ten minutes,_ Kent thinks, _I’m meant to be here._

He counts in lightning bolts instead of minutes because he didn’t wear his watch and he couldn’t see it even if he had, and ten minutes is a long fucking time to stand in a thunderstorm even if you are Kent Parson levels of crazy.

There’s been six potential smitings and Kent still feels mostly alive so fuck it, he bolts inside and tries not to slip and crack his skull open on the stairs.

Kent bangs on the door, probably louder than he really has to. Every inch of him is waterlogged and he can feel the storm sparking in his veins.

_Maybe he’s not even home. Maybe he sleeps through thunderstorms now. It’s been a long time._

One lightning strike. The door opens. One clap of thunder.

 

~*~

 

There’s three and a half months between the second storm and the third. Jack and Kent are in bed, above the covers watching TV when the first lightning strike flashes, barely visible. The thunder echoes long after with a soft grumble. Kent mutters, “Shit, storm coming.”

“Distract me,” Jack tells him. He sinks down and nuzzles his head against Kent’s hip.

“Yeah, I have my—,”

“No, Kenny,” Jack pushes his fingers up against the hem of Kent’s t-shirt, “I want you. _Mon_ _petit oiseau_.” He presses a kiss to Kent’s stomach, right below his navel. It’s warm and light and burns right through the skin. Kent doesn’t really answer, just swallows hard and wonders if this is the part where people usually pray. “Kenny,” Jack says again, head tilting up and fingers shifting down, just barely nudging under the waistband, “is this what you—did I misunderstand? I thought we—,”

His mouth comes back online. Rain starts to patter on the roof. Soothing. A ticking clock, maybe. “Oh God, Zimms, yeah. Yeah, I—oh my God.” Jack wraps his hand around Kent’s cock and strokes gently, and maybe it should be embarrassing that Kent is achingly hard already but he doesn’t know because he’s never been touched by someone he wants this badly before.

He slides down the pillows or Jack pushes up, who knows, it doesn’t matter, just that they’re on eye level and Kent leans in and they’re kissing. It’s soft at the beginning, like first kisses are supposed to be, probably, but then Jack’s teeth graze against Kent’s lip and the moan he makes is rough and there’s a bucking of hips and Jack has always been a fast learner. He nips this time, catches Kent’s lip between his teeth, and it hits Kent somewhere in his gut.

Lightning plays against his eyelids, leaves red spots behind, and when the thunder tumbles after Jack clutches Kent closer, rolls onto his back and yanks him on top. Kent sinks his weight down and Jack’s fist tightens, strokes faster at the pleading pace of the rain and Kent can barely think, barely has the presence of mind to brace himself on a forearm and slide the other arm down. Jack is thick and hot under Kent’s palm and throbbing, like maybe he’s ached for this just like Kent has.

He has things to say, things like, _this is the best thing that’s ever fucking happened to me_ and _are we too young to be in love?_ But using words means not kissing Jack and words can wait because there’s a tongue in his mouth now, wet heat like when rain steams against the pavement in the summer.

Jack pulls back to breathe. Lightning sears through the hotel window and casts the room into a snapshot of light. Kent tries to soak in details: Jack’s head thrown back, throat bared; the way his lips are parted so that his teeth glimmer in the strange light just a little; his dark hair flopped down over pale skin, so long on the sides it nearly brushes pink cheeks. Kent doesn’t know how to say the things he’d wanted to.

The moment passes and by the time the thunder hits they’re pressed back together, squirming and panting, little noises in the backs of throats they can feel more than hear over the roaring storm.

When Jack comes, cock pulsing into Kent’s hand and hips snapping up, he bites down so hard on Kent’s lip that Kent comes too, moan swallowed by the thunder and forehead pressed against Jack’s damp skin.

Every muscle gives out at once and Kent collapses, squashes every inch of himself against Jack. He can feel come seeping through his shirt and doesn’t even pretend to care. There’s still a storm outside, still pounding rain and scorching lightning and bursting thunder. There’s still Jack, too, taking in panting breaths and nearly-laughing, running his clean hand through Kent’s hair.

 

~*~

 

Jack is in sweatpants and a too-tight shirt with long sleeves. He looks wrecked, the bad kind, with lopsided mussed hair and nervous eyes. He hasn’t slept. “Parse? What are you doing here?”

Kent runs a hand through his soaked hair, like this whole thing is some casual coincidence. His cowlick springs up immediately and flicks water droplets everywhere. “Hey, Zimms. I was just, uh, in the neighborhood and you know, figured I might as well stop by.”

“ _Kenny_.”

Another flash of lightning, another roar of thunder. “Fuck, I—Christ, Zimms, I think of you every time. I can’t listen to the rain without you in my fucking head and I miss you, I miss you so fucking much it _hurts_ and I have so much to say sorry for and I’ve missed—I spent nine years of storms alone wondering where you were. Nine fucking years and I couldn’t help you and I’m so fucking sorry, for everything, _everything_ and I can’t—I’d do anything, Zimms, you have to know it’s always been—I think of you when it _rains_ . How can I let you go when—I’m sorry I wasn’t there, sorry I couldn’t help you, sorry I hurt you and I just—I’m here now. Please, _please_ let me be here.”

“Kenny—,”

A door creaks open from somewhere. “Jack, sweetheart, what in the world are— _oh_.” It takes Kent a minute to place him, but he remembers Bittle from that party years ago. He’s short, wiry but built like an athlete, with honey-blond hair tousled by sleep flopped over his forehead. He’s wearing a Falconers jersey two sizes too big and nothing else, clutching a stuffed rabbit under one arm. Bittle belongs here. Kent doesn’t.

 

~*~

 

Contrary to popular belief, Kent Parson doesn’t fall apart the day of Jack’s overdose.

And despite what you might think, he doesn’t hit rock bottom the day his mom boards the plane and leaves him entirely, desperately alone in Vegas.

No, it’s a little two weeks after that, the first time he sees the heat lightning, that does him in.

There’s clouds in the distance, dark brooding clouds and flashes of lightning striping across the sky. There’s no thunder; the storm is too far away. There’s no rain; the storm doesn’t belong to him. Vegas belongs to him, his condo and his new hockey team and the strip with all its casinos and flashing lights. Vegas is a desert. The dry heat brittles his bones and scorches his skin and this is how he falls apart: owning all the wrong things and trying to drown without rain.

 

~*~

 

The dramatic flourish of being drenched from a storm on his ex-lover’s doorstep fades pretty quickly. He’s left sopping wet and feeling pathetic. “Shit, I—I’ll leave, I’m sorry—I didn’t know you—I shouldn’t be here, I’ll leave.”

“Kenny—.” The harsh bang of thunder and Jack flinches silent.

“I just wanted—,” Kent’s voice cracks. “I’m sorry, okay? I had to say I’m sorry and you don’t have to forgive me but fuck, I couldn’t let you go without saying it, Zimms. I couldn’t.” He still can’t, maybe, but it’s a little easier to breathe at least. He turns to leave.

Jack’s voice is soft, tiny in the scope of the rainstorm. “No, _petit oiseau_ , stay. Stay.”

Kent looks back, past Jack and over at Bittle, who nods, brown eyes wide and warm. So he stays.

 

~*~

 

“You _stupid-ass_ motherfucker, there’s no way you’re going outside in this shit!” Swoops gestures wildly to the wall of hotel windows, where rain is slamming against the panes. “You can’t see two feet in front of you. They grounded the fucking flight for a reason.”

“I have to.” Kent presses his face into his hands and inhales through his nose, feels the way the skin of his palms suctions and cuts off the breath. “I still—I need to see him and it has to be tonight.” Lightning. Thunder. The effort it takes not to sob. “Swoops, I have to.”

Swoops scowls at him and swipes his keys off the nightstand. “I swear to fucking God, Parse,” he threatens, tossing the keys across the room, “if you crash my rental and get yourself killed I will fucking _murder_ you.” Kent shrugs. He might deserve to die twice.

It takes him twenty minutes to get the address out of Snowy. He’ll owe people a lot of favors in the morning. But right now he has somewhere to be.

 

~*~

 

Jack wakes up before his alarm. There’s the smallest hint of sunlight peeking through the window; the storm passed in the night. Birds are chirping and the leaves rustle with a gentle breeze. There’s a rainbow, blurred by the orange of the sunrise. Bitty is on his left, curled in a little nest of bedsheets and comforter, breath coming softly in the gentle rhythm of sleep. There’s no clouds, no rain. Just birds and the morning and a rainbow and the sunrise, and—he turns his head at the sound of a quiet yawn to find a sleepy smirk and half-lidded gray eyes—and Kenny. Kenny’s here too.

**Author's Note:**

> I love PB&J so much and I will babble with you about them [on Tumblr <3](http://yoursummerfrost.tumblr.com/)


End file.
